


QC

by dianekepler



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Dreams, Emotional Dissociation, F/M, Gen 3 Synths, Lactation, Lactation Kink, Lucid dreams, Medical Experiments, Sex Negativity, although fapping is encouraged, and angst aplenty, dubcon, so it seems I can no longer write just a fap piece, with all the dirty synth-fuckery you would expect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-19 19:53:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9458063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dianekepler/pseuds/dianekepler
Summary: Shaun Ried was head of Robotics before he was appointed Director, with all the responsibilities and privileges that entails.





	

i)

It begins as a dream.

D3-50 is on my lap, on a lounger, in Processing. The ripe, warm weight of her is even across my thighs. Her hair, a fine, strawberry blonde, is longer than synths are allowed. It is not something I notice at the time, but I will remember upon waking. 

She wears grey undershorts: low-waisted, skintight, nearly as pale as her bare legs bracketing mine. Her form is slender and her back arched so that the well of her navel elongates top to bottom, hinting at things unseen. Yet this is nothing compared to the perfection of her breasts, in my hands, at just above eye level.

Barely more than a handful, they are as flawless as if she emerged from the vat only yesterday. I trace pink areolae with my thumbs. Time goes viscous as they circle, like a holovid slowed and looped. The miracle of what our division has achieved is so compelling I am in a kind of trance and, with hands on warm skin, I knead in easy repetition. She flushes, as if systemic link makes arousal as unconscious as breathing. 

Her response inflames me. A imagined wire through my vitals transmits charges tuned to the amplitude and frequency of her sounds. Between my legs, a deep and primal heart beats for her.

With hands on that swell of a posterior, I urge her closer. I am clothed and yet feel the heat of her barely-screened mons as easily as if I was naked under a sunlamp. Reclining, I press up against her. She is immobile except for small, sweet motions of her hips. 

Evidence of this unit’s capacity is beading now, white as the surrounding walls. In answer to something unspoken D3-50 leans forward, hair falling around us in a motion as natural as the water features in the atrium outside. 

I part my lips. 

 

ii)

It returns as a lucid dream.

I learned about them as an adolescent. Archival materials hinted, but mastering the actual technique had to wait for the arrival of an old magazine a salvage team once recovered from the surface. Escape was often necessary during those awkward years. It sometimes still is. We have so little in the way of entertainment here.

Perceiving differences between dreams and reality is what allows me to invoke the lucid state. Here the clue is from two prototype Gen 3s in my quarters during the night cycle, where, even considering my senior position, they would never realistically be.

Their entire sleeping platform has, in the manner of dreams, been transported here. D3-50 is spooned against her induction partner D3-48. They are part of the same study. The scheduling, loss of sleep and the sheer amount of repetitive stimulation required to bring a unit up to full production would have been far too time-consuming for any number of researchers. Far easier to manufacture and program two synths to induce one another. Their matched genotypes also allow for a control when varying parameters such as hours of sleep or diet. 

Casual observers see them as mirror images, although I can tell the difference without resorting to biometrics. It’s important to know the status of all projects in the division, so watching them move back and forth between routine assignments and their cubicle near the back of Processing has become something of a habit. The units maintain an extraction schedule of six cycles per day. 

Having control over my dream allows me, through mere effort of will, to begin a cycle. D3-48 stirs and rolls supine. The movement rouses D3-50 who plucks drowsily at the fastenings of her partner's surplice top and, when all is in readiness, latches on. It is an elegant solution to the problem of caloric waste devised by Justin Ayo, principal investigator of this study. 

D3-48 and D3-50 naturally close their eyes when they are together. Their arms also tend to encircle one another as they silently perform the extraction, although I can hear D3-50 as she swallows. Subtle movements of her throat are visible as well.

The dream state allows me to feel easy about leading D3-50 away once her role as the active partner is complete. To feel sure of undressing her and sliding palms over petal-soft skin, of being naked in the reduced glow from the atrium, further cut by the polarization of my balcony window. We are alone together. Safe.

I visualize every aspect of our encounter down to the halo that delineates her form. Her inner thighs, once I’ve arranged them against my flanks, are cushioned and she is butterflied open against my belly. Her heat only sharpens a need to first consume and then possess and then … keep… somehow? 

Rational thought is anathema to dreams. The moment I begin to wonder is the instant the theater’s curtain begins to fall. As her body fades to black I try to stay with the dream, to make up for the loss of sight touch and hearing. The feeling of my hands around her slender waist, her reassuring voice when I say _state your full designation._

_I am D3-50, model G3-42-QC11-3983, production date: August eleventh, 2265._

Her body is so warm. Cheek against my hand. Knees along my ribs. I need to hold on, but she is fading. 

_Identify me._

_You are Shaun Reid, head of Robotics, Institute member since May sixteenth, 2224. Alternate designation: Father._

I struggle, rampant, pushing at nothing as I wrest her body closer. But the last filaments of the dream dissolve, leaving nothing but tumescence, twisted sheets, and that unfathomable ache in my chest. 

 

iii)

It’s always after a particularly long or troublesome day that these needs press most forcibly, vying for attention in much the same way as junior researchers applying for greater energy allocations, or more cycles on the mainframe.

Today’s ordeal is the quarterly inter-Division colloquium, or more specifically, the argument that arises once the four division heads are alone with Director Mathis. Maria Holdren, the iron-willed head of BioSciences, has for some time now been convinced that a young Brian Virgil should inherit the canine FEV project. Others believe he is less well-suited to the task. The issues are with Virgil’s unorthodox attitudes towards specimens, indeed, his very personality. 

I am undeniably correct. There have been enough difficulties with higher-security research in my lifetime that I am aware of who will be effective in a given line of inquiry. Yet despite any arguments Karl Zimmer or I can make, Maria’s persistence wins the day. She’s had the ear of the Director for years now. 

In the evening, I find myself restive. Not even a glass of our best Sangiovese or the familiar 2072 performance of _Love’s Labor’s Lost_ at the Charles Playhouse can settle my mind. The appointed hour to retire leaves me staring at the ceiling, my baser instincts unhelpfully asserting themselves. 

To make things worse, my fantasies involving D3-50 have become conscious. 

No other synth at no other time has evoked such unmentionable appetites. Only this one. Only now. And it is always the second unit. So alike as to routinely be mistaken for one another by half the community, it defies all reason for D3-50 to appeal when D3-48 other does not. Variations do exist: in their hormone levels, their responses to given stimuli. I have inspected the numbers closely. But they are three-sigma distinctions at best. Indeed, the only substantive differences lie in their personality matrices. I have certainly never tested this, but D3-50 somehow gives the impression of being more intuitive, and thus a better fit for purposes that have for weeks now, been simmering in a region I imagine is neither too distant nor well-separated from my amygdala. 

If it only letting these ideas express themselves in sordid physicality wasn’t the only thing that allow me to rest. 

When I succumb to temptation and push fabric aside, the image that comes to mind is of a deserted lab in the Institute’s upper levels. The security measures meant to keep these places sealed, even the increasingly complex algorithms of the Gen 1s and 2s that used to sweep the chilly corridors were always possible to circumvent. I spent many hours of my youth exploring, even laying claim to certain spaces. 

My imagination has me leading D3-50 down barren paths strewn with the detritus of centuries past. Silent, docile, her hand is warm in mine. Guiding her is easier than giving directions and safer than merely telling her to follow. Only I know which connections are still live, which tiles creak alarmingly whenever they bear any weight. 

In the lab I still think of as mine, the comic books and scavenged baubles of earlier years have given way to operations manuals, to the electronics I would endlessly dissect and reassemble. Couches are still arranged along the walls. They make a resting place for the clothing I remove and set aside, taking my time to unwrap what I have brought all this way to enjoy without oversight. Despite our relatively small number of Gen 3s, instances of mishandling have already been reported, the perpetrators subjected to ridicule and condemnation when their names came to light. 

Her spine presses into my sternum, skin to fevered skin. She is supple under my hands, except for a captivating tautness that says it must be past time for her most recent extraction. She may, in fact, have become uncomfortable already. 

On an indrawn breath in the real world I abruptly let go of my too-sensitive flesh. The notion of D3-50 being somehow overfull leaves me feeling urgently similar, so if I wish to stay with the fantasy, only the lightest caresses must serve until I can back out the fuel rods and cool the fission reactor inside of me. Logic suggests getting this debauched exercise over with, yet for some reason I need it to last.

Still, I can’t un-think the concept of us bare, pressed together from neck to knee, in a place safe from prying eyes is perfectly intoxicating. D3-50 actively needing release is the final component. 

Time fragments, it flies in a thousand directions. D3-50 is bent over one of the desks, like the woman in that pre-war holotape relentlessly passed around during the last few years of school. In subsequent iterations we are pressed mouth to mouth, mouth to inguina, lips to fingers, hands to everything else. 

She rests beneath me at the end of this frenzied montage, perfectly aligned, pleading with eyes and sounds for me to answer her most critical need, to release the pressure. As she lies back on the couch, her head displaced by her meeting my thrusts so that it hangs slightly off the side with her pretty neck exposed, my hands work her firmly, deliberately, thumbs just below the nipples and other fingers clamped tight from above. I squeeze until fine and beautiful streams, three to five from each side, arc out and disappear into the forgiving dark. 

The shock of my climax hits me like a fall from the top of the atrium, or at least what I imagined the fall would feel like on those few occasions that I stood on one of the highest balconies of the Institute, looking down. 

 

iv) 

It's baffling how these fantasies compel me. 

My training, which includes psychology, allows me to find relevant literature. Paraphilias such as this are said to be acquired through formative experiences. Doubtful in my case, as I had quite the normal childhood -- without living relatives, to be sure, but the Gen 2s in the nursery provided for me, and later, the man who would become Director Mathis and his family. In any case, I was several years younger than the Director’s biological children. The process Justin Ayo is studying, the one that has so monopolized my ideation, was never seen in all of those years, except once, and then only in passing. 

I was in the infirmary being treated for one of the inevitable cuts and scrapes from exploring the upper levels, a lie about poking around in recent dig sites at the ready. A medic in the next cubicle was delivering questions to his patient, the scene hidden until I crept forward to look. 

The woman’s name is lost to me, but I remember hearing of her before pressing my eye to a gap between the wall and a sliding panel. She was a tech from Advanced Systems who had strayed beyond the bounds of polite society as well as common sense. _Wouldn’t she be happier with her newborn safe in the nursery_ , was the most common view. _Free to work a full shift? Much better than being shackled to endless demands, on call day and night. Why it must be exhausting, the poor thing._

A knack for making myself unseen in those years allowed me to overhear more biting words as well. _Aren’t we beyond that? No better than a surface dweller, really._ It would harm the child, they said. Set it up to be a clinging, fractious little thing. _Formula was good enough for the rest of us. What makes her so high and mighty is what I’d like to know._

As the words replayed themselves my mind, as the doctor’s questions continued, the infant suckled. The mother’s head was bent over her child’s. She stroked a finger along its cheek. And that was all. There was nothing sexual about any of it. I felt only confusion, coupled with the odd sense of putting a hand to my own cheek, wondering what that kind of contact must feel like.

What I experienced is nothing like the present lurid reveries. Thoughts of handling D3-50 in every possible way, plundering her body for every texture, sound, and taste. My memory is also nothing like this crude aftermath: as unclean and inconvenient as ever. 

A shower and a change of sheets set that part to rights, at least until these uncomfortably cyclic desires begin to grow again. 

 

v)

She is lithe and everywhere pale in the low lights of Processing. Only telltales and the recessed sources near the floor are on. This after-hours configuration could but won’t be adjusted, just as the access logs for this area can and will be overwritten.

I beckon. It is a gesture D3-50 understood the first time she saw it. One that D3-48, now sedated on their sleeping platform, did not. I was right. The second unit really is more perceptive. Perhaps more responsive as well. 

My index finger, precessing, gives D3-50 a cue to show herself from all angles. I do not understand Ayo’s logic in selecting the this phenotype, although as the principal investigator of the project, he could certainly have given the pair albinism or six toes had there been a need. At one time, it even seemed that they had similarities to the Maria of our youth, but I have concluded these correlations are incidental. In any case D3-48 and 50 are built to sustain children, not bear them. Small breasts on a slender frame will serve the purpose as well as any. 

“Come this way.”

She follows me to one of the isolation chambers we use for intensive study. In these close quarters her soft fragrance is apparent. I find it agreeable. Hygiene is especially important with these prototypes and they have been taught to maintain a high standard. 

“D3-50, begin recording a new protocol. Clearance exclusive to Reid, S. Code 45-epsilon.”

The unit blinks. “Eidetic memory functions online.”

A bunk projects, shelflike from one wall and I sit down on it. The silence beats against my ears as my heart slams into my ribcage. But the insistent need that has made a carbide-alloy of the relevant part of me will no longer be denied. 

“Sit across my lap,” I tell her. “Hands on top of mine, just here.” 

The warmth of her breasts eases palms gone clammy with nerves. She is firmer than I’d imagined. The incorrect prediction sends a prickle of embarrassment into my cheeks, although there is no reason to be ashamed when I’ve never done this before.

Nonetheless, it is all I can do to give the order. “Show me a standard induction pattern.”

She begins without a word. With her hands as guides, I learn the repetitive stroke-and-pull, the sweet variations in pressure, the manner of cupping her just so. With each manipulation the heat of her skin increases, bringing with it greater and more visceral jolts to my system than in ten sessions of dreaming, night or day. Of late it’s been night and day. Hour upon hour. 

After just a few repetitions of each type of massage, her hands go slack on top of mine as she waits for further instructions. I’ve apprehended the techniques; I’m not an idiot. But the pleasure of finally doing what I’ve imagined for so long is such that I don’t mean it end so quickly.

“Again.” 

“Continuing will stimulate letdown, sir.” The pure notes of her voice rush down to where I’m already leaking insufferably. 

Speech falters. It’s as if an obstruction blocks my throat. “Yes. I want to … observe … when this happens.” 

“Do you require a count or duration?”

“No,” I manage, “this is a qualitative test.”

With the same unhurried rhythm, she goes on until her exquisite display manifests in droplets, in delicate streams. As they trace their way across the webbing between my fingers and thumbs, I tremble. My clothing is stiflingly hot. A tilt-slide of vertigo leaves me so disoriented that I must briefly look away. 

Swiftly, strongly, with hands on her back, I bring her so close that we collide. The motion bumps a sound free of her. It’s a note of arousal, perhaps. I answer by losing myself in the unbelievable warmth and longed-for taste. So _sweet_. And yet the expected flood is a trickle. Drawing harder does nothing save elicit a gasp. Her other side yields the same unsatisfactory result. Perhaps if I added my hands? But no. 

Frustration tightens them, along with my jaw. Why is this happening? I’ve seen the extraction any number of times. Ayo’s data clearly demonstrate both units' capacities. Is she holding back somehow?

“Sir.” Her voice is higher, more hesitant than usual. 

Flushed cheeks wait above me. They bear faint constellations of freckles that I’ve never noticed before. “The method is to … open wider.” 

And with that slight change, I have it. Taking as much of her as far in as possible does the trick. 

Pleasure surges by incalculable orders of magnitude. Her arms surround me as if I were her counterpart and I dissolve. _This_ , says the deepest part of me, _more of this_. My face is alight. Fingers, chest, my very core all thrum in response to this, _partaking_ , this fiendishly intimate connection that has me crushed when the flow ebbs and exuberant as I move to the eastern hemisphere. There is a profundity in the way she fills me. An unlooked-for satisfaction even as I thrust ever more deliberately against her, impatient for another kind of release.

With the cycle compete I unthinkingly kiss D3-50’s sternum before guiding her to sit next to me. My trousers are damp inside and out, a strange development, until I remember what I’ve read about female arousal. Unsettling to see the phenomenon realized. A reminder that I dare not fulfill every aspect of my fantasy. The perpetrators of the previous Gen 3 scandal were identified by their DNA and I will give Ayo neither reason for suspicion, nor proof that anything anything happened should he ever think to test. 

The same grainy holotape of my school days had a scene in which a woman serviced her partner from a kneeling posture. It is this that I’ve resolved to try. I guide D3-50 into position, freeing myself at last, but the span of half a minute has me hissing at fierce scrape of teeth and pulling back in genuine alarm. I have no time and even less patience for her ignorance. Instead, my hand over hers is enough to demonstrate the required motions. The result is abrupt, graceless, but serves the purpose. Once she swallows it even delivers mild satisfaction at the practicality of it all. 

After supervising D3-50’s cleanup and return, I adjust the access logs and insert the footage of an empty lab into the security feeds. A circuitous route through rarely-used corridors emerges near the cafeteria and from there it is wearily home, where I shower the remaining evidence away.

Angina, pleurisy, and more exotic conditions have been ruled out over multiple examinations, yet the intermittent ache in my chest always returns. Tonight it makes sleep elusive. I set my mind, as I often do, to making incremental improvements in procedures, beginning with this new test, the one I ironically had D3-50 label “quality control”. 

The encounter was too quiet, for one thing. I recall a great many murmurs and sighs whenever Maria and I were entwined on those couches in the abandoned lab. Her kisses held such promise. Everything pointed to the maturation of our relationship, indeed I’d thought that one day we might even apply for familial status. This was before she’d inexplicably refused the next step on that path and, after I pressed over the next several months, broke off contact entirely.

My talent for circumventing security proved useful once again. Anything recorded on a terminal was within my purview, including Maria’s journal, or the internal mail of other women I’d approached over the years. In this way I learned the truth. 

As difficult as it was to learn that my genome acting as the basis of every Gen 3 that fetches, carries, works in our labs, or digs out the dirt behind them, makes me far less desirable in a reproductive partner, I now understand still more. History is full of brilliant men who, when freed from the obligations of interdependence, go on to achieve true greatness. The circumstance is fortuitous, really. It allows a level of of dedication to my work that others cannot hope to match.


End file.
